


Frostiana

by NamelesslyNightlock



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: 19th Century, Andy | Andromache the Scythian to the Rescue, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drowning, Established Relationship, Families of Choice, Fear, Fluff, Fluffy Ending, Happy Ending, Happy Murder Family, Hot Chocolate, Hugs, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani and Nicky | Nicolò di Genova Acting Like a Married Couple, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani and Nicky | Nicolò di Genova are in Love, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani is an Incurable Romantic, Kissing, M/M, Mission Fic, Murder, Protective Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Regency, Snowball Fight, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Worried Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27603077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NamelesslyNightlock/pseuds/NamelesslyNightlock
Summary: During the winter of 1814, in the midst of the Industrial Revolution, London suffered such a bitter cold that the River Thames froze solid. The resultant fair – and snowball fight – became the perfect cover for a group of immortals on a mission to murder.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache & Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Joe | Yusuf al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 21
Kudos: 185





	Frostiana

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Serinah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serinah/gifts).



> This was written for an exchange on the All and More discord server. **Serinah** wrote the prompt: _Snowball Fight. 19C London._ I had plenty of ideas for this (including the ending that you actually wanted omg) but I got sick and wasn't able to write the epic I had planned. Maybe one day 😆  
>   
> (That being said, if anyone is waiting on me to write hug prompts, I'll get to them as soon as I feel able. I haven't forgotten them, I promise.)  
>   
> Massive thank you to **Rabentochter** for reading this over for me and making sure it all makes sense ❤︎

The snow was thick beneath Nicolò’s feet, his new boots sinking deep into the cold, wet powder. He smiled as he remembered Yusuf muttering about the temperature earlier that morning—England had been having a harsher winter than usual, and had it been up to Yusuf, Nicolò knew that the lot of them would have been somewhere much further south. Indeed, Yusuf had been the one who had pushed the new pair of boots into Nicolò’s hands, claiming that his well worn in pair would only result in Nicolò falling on his ass in the too-deep snow.

(And honestly, he was probably right.)

But despite the distaste most of the group held for British winters, their newest member – Booker, as he had asked them to call him – had found a cause he wished to fight for, and as he was only just coming round to the idea of living forever, they decided to follow it through. 

Booker had wanted to start in Paris, but going back would be painful for him, they all knew. So they agreed to head to London, where conditions had become worse than they had ever been in history—and where they had recently drafted laws which would make life for the common people insurmountably harder.

The Bill was to be voted upon in Parliament the next week with the aim of strengthening the Combination Acts of the previous decade, thus making unionisation impossible and allowing workers to be further crushed under the thumbs of their employers.

 _Employers._ The very thought of the word made Nicolò’s lip curl. They were little more than _masters,_ forcing people to work for room and board which cost more than they would otherwise be paid. It was servitude, not _work_ —and he and his family were there to stop it from becoming all the worse.

The vote would be a close one. Andy had shaken down the right people and learned that the House of Lords was near evenly split—only one vote needed to change for the Bill to fall apart. So, they’d learned what they could, and picked their victim—Viscount William of Mandeville, a horror of a man who had managed to stick his thumbs in the earnings of a few cotton mills himself. His son, however – the man who would inherit the seat on the _unfortunate_ event of his father’s passing – was more than likely to vote the other way, if only to spite his father’s business interests. (Which, Andy said, was a far more reliable motive than a kind heart, and as much as Nicolò most often believed otherwise, he found himself in agreement with her this time.)

_So._

All they needed to do to stop the passing of the Bill was to eliminate one single man.

Nicolò might have once thought it wouldn’t be too hard, if he hadn’t long since learned that even thinking such things usually resulted in a mission becoming the exact opposite.

They had fanned out, following the Viscount’s carriage as it weaved through the narrow streets. Andy was in a carriage of her own, disguised as a proper lady while Booker acted as her coachman. Yusuf and Nicolò, meanwhile, were on foot, the pair of them on opposite sides of the street, able to easily keep up due to the blockages of snow in the road which caught in the carriage wheels. It seemed that most of the traffic was heading in the same direction, which made it easy to appear inconspicuous.

Nicolò allowed himself a short glance to the left, not really needing it to locate Yusuf but preferring to have the visual nonetheless. Yusuf caught his gaze with a grin, and as the carriage they were trailing turned a corner, he crossed the slow-moving road to join Nicolò.

The brush of their hands was as familiar as the sensation of wind on his cheek, the nudge against his side as expected as Yusuf’s smile was warm.

“It’s too cold here,” Yusuf said, his tone as bright as always despite his constant war against the temperature. “Hold my hand, Nico, before it falls off.”

Nicolò chuckled, and pressed their sides a little closer. They both knew that they couldn’t be _too_ close out in public, not in this time and place, but there were plenty enough people huddling together for warmth that this would be simply overlooked.

They walked together around the final corner, eyes peeled despite leaning into each other. It wasn’t hard to spot the coach where it had pulled up along the edge of the Thames. Their target was stepping out of it, his thick cloak trailing in the ice.

Yusuf nudged Nicolò in the side.

“I know,” Nicolò replied, his gaze not leaving the Viscount as he moved toward the steps that would take him down to the Thames. “He must have a boat waiting. If Andy can’t follow, we might be able to hire—”

“Not that,” Yusuf cut in, nudging Nicolò again. “ _Look.”_

To be entirely honest, it took Nicolò a moment. It wasn’t that he was slow on the uptake, or unobservant—it just… took him a moment to actually _understand_ what it was that he was seeing.

Then he felt himself pause. And he _stared._

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Yusuf said, his voice slow with curiosity. “But didn’t London have a river the last time we were here?”

Nicolò tilted his head. “Yusuf… that _is_ the river.”

Yusuf half _whined,_ and the sound was almost enough to make Nicolò roll his eyes. “But there are people _walking_ on it! Honestly, this place—I can’t believe I let you talk me into coming back to London!”

“It wasn’t my idea.”

“Yes, but you _talked_ me into it. I would have been fine with going to Paris. This place is just—dreary _._ The buildings are too grey, too close together. You can barely see the sky, even if it weren’t for this new smog. And the smell—”

“We have both been to cities that smell far worse,” Nicolò cut in, not bothering to hide his fond amusement. Amusement was no doubt what Yusuf had been wanting, after all. Nicolò knew him well enough to recognise that even his complaints were an attempt to lighten the mood, and he smiled as he continued. “London is not so different.”

“It is,” Yusuf insisted. “I don’t know what it is _exactly_ , but there’s just something in the air. Something oppressive. And that’s even without all this _snow._ If we’d gone to France, we could have gone further south afterward, got a boat to Malta. The climate is far more preferable there.”

Nicolò, of course, agreed, but he couldn’t help replying. “You would find anything preferable to here.”

“And you wouldn’t?” Yusuf challenged.

Nicolò thought for a moment. “Remember the first time we went east with Andy and Quynh, and we got lost in that jungle? You managed to fall into a bog of some kind, and it took me almost an hour to find a stick long enough to drag you back out again—”

“All right, yes,” Yusuf cut in, “That _might_ have been a little less pleasant than this snow. But that does not change the fact that this place is _miserable.”_

“I don’t know,” Nicolò replied, nudging Yusuf’s arm as he pointed back out to the river. “They seem to be enjoying themselves well enough.”

Yusuf shook his head, but Nicolò could tell that it was mostly performative. His dark eyes were as glued to the scene before them as Nicolò’s.

For while they had both seen lakes and fjords frozen before, it was unusual to see a river this wide, this well used, this far _south_ frozen to a thickness strong enough to hold a large number of people. But the Thames seemed to be almost entirely frozen solid, and in the centre… not only were there people skating, as you might expect. Oh no—there were crowds of people streaming between rows of tents, flashes of colour and shouts of vendors. There were people walking on stilts to put on a show, there were structures lifting chairs into the air, there was music and dancing and frivolity. There even, if Nicolò’s eyes weren’t playing tricks on him, seemed to be a—

“Is that an elephant?” Yusuf asked, faux annoyance already having given way to incredulity.

“We haven’t seen an elephant in a long time,” Nicolò mused. “I hope it isn’t being mistreated.”

“Everyone here is being mistreated.” There was a darkness back in Yusuf’s tone, but he continued to smile as he turned to meet Nicolò’s gaze. “That’s why _we’re_ here.”

“Then we should continue.”

They made their way toward the edge of the river together, stopping above the steps that led down to the water’s edge. It didn’t take long for Nicolò to find their target once again.

“There,” he said, pointing down over the frozen river.

The Viscount they had been following was passing between two tents—and, Nicolò was pleased to note, Andy and Booker were visible not far behind him. Nicolò and Yusuf hurried down the stairs – or at least, they hurried as much as they could, given that they needed to grip the railing tightly so that they did not slip down all in one go – and then approached one of the men waiting at the bottom.

“You want _what?”_ Yusuf asked, stopping Nicolò from reaching for coins the moment he heard the price for entering the fair. “That’s extortion! For even the best of circuses, I wouldn’t pay half that! And you don’t own this river, you have no right to be—” 

“Do you want to miss out, mate?” the man asked. “Fair’s been ‘ere five days now, won’t last much longer I don’t think. All these people on the ice, it’ll break it up. If you don’t want to pay, go home and miss all the fun.”

They might have been able to find an unattended set of stairs, but given the size of the fair… Nicolò doubted it. And besides, they couldn’t afford to waste any time. So, Nicolò watched as Yusuf handed the man the necessary coin with a terse reluctance, and then they pushed forward.

When he stepped onto the ice for the first time, Nicolò found himself _glad_ for the snow. While it had been difficult to walk through on the streets, it meant that the ice itself was not as slippery as it could have been—though he could see more than a few patches of shiny sludge where people had walked frequently over the last few days.

Looking around at the number of people packed onto the ice, Nicolò leaned toward Yusuf. “It might be easier to wait until he’s somewhere more secluded,” he mused.

“No.” Yusuf was squinting a little as he looked out over the whiteness of the frozen river, with all of the tents still dusted in snow. “If we do it when he’s secluded, there will be an investigation.”

He didn’t need to say the rest—Nicolò knew what he was thinking.

_Here, it will be easy to make it look like an accident._

It wasn’t hard to find Andy and Booker. Even with all the other colourful winter dresses packed onto the ice, she would always stand out in a crowd. She met Nicolò’s gaze, then glanced to Yusuf, and then away. 

_Not yet._

“Ooh, Nico, look!”

Nicolò allowed himself to be pulled over to a vendor selling sweets—then one selling coloured gins, then another with mince pies. They saw puppet shows and dancers, and an entire oxen being roasted on a spit above a raging fire, dozens of drooling onlookers watching eagerly. There were even printing presses set up upon the ice, inking cards and poems for people to take home as souvenirs.

Yusuf darted from stall to stall, not even needing to _try_ to appear the excited patron. No one would think that they were there for any other reason. Nicolò revelled in his happiness, uncaring of the bite of icy air when Yusuf’s laughter rang through it. It made him feel warmer than a summer’s day.

He grinned as he spied one particular vendor, and slipped from Yusuf’s side to make a purchase of his own. He was just turning back when Yusuf reappeared at his shoulder.

“Look at this,” Yusuf said, his smile as blinding as the sun on the snow. He held out the small parcel in his hands—a piece of biscuit wrapped in blue paper, the date and location written carefully on the outside.

_Sold on the Thames, 5 th of February, 1814._

“It’s gingerbread,” Yusuf explained. “They’re turning this fair into a—well, a fair. What’s that you’ve got?”

Nicolò held up his own prize, his smile still warm from Yusuf’s words. “I thought you might like something to warm you up,” he said.

“Oh, ya amar,” Yusuf said, staring at the pair of steaming cups in Nicolò’s hands in a manner which could only be described as reverent. “You truly are the most thoughtful of men, the kindest of souls. You carry such compassion in your heart that even the coldest of devils would kneel at your feet and weep for a touch of its warmth.”

“And you’re truly incurable,” Nicolò said—though his cheeks were as heated as the cups in his hands. “Here, just take it.”

Yusuf did so, his fingers curling around the hot drink tightly. His eyes closed as he brought it to his lips, and Nicolò found himself staring as Yusuf took his first sip.

“Perfect,” Yusuf sighed.

“As good as the chocolate we tried in Spain?” Nicolò teased. 

Yusuf paused, eyeing Nicolò over the edge of his cup. “In this moment, as freezing as I am,” Yusuf said, “I would have drunk a flagon of hot mud and been happy with it.”

“Then I’m glad I could find you something better,” Nicolò replied.

Yusuf’s eyes glinted with a shine that Nicolò knew well. He glanced to the side, noting that none of the people around them were paying them even the slightest bit of attention. Then, with a gentle tug, he pulled Yusuf around the back of the tent, between the chocolate stall and the rear of another. There they were hidden from sight—and Nicolò felt entirely unreserved as he leaned forward to draw Yusuf into a kiss.

He could taste the chocolate, the sweetness dancing across his tongue as he swiped it along the line of Yusuf’s lips. Yusuf smiled into the kiss, and Nicolò let his free hand curl in Yusuf’s shirt, pulling him as close as he could without spilling either of their cups.

“You two are adorable.”

Nicolò jumped, but Yusuf laughed as they pulled apart, and when his mind caught up to what had happened Nicolò gave Andy a smile.

Booker was watching them carefully—though Nicolò had come to know him well enough to recognise that the stoicism in his expression hid not distaste, but his own sorrow.

“If you’re not too busy,” Andy drawled, “The Viscount is heading toward that unfinished bridge.”

“I didn’t see much over there,” Yusuf said, joining in immediately—though he took Nicolò’s hand and gave his fingers a light squeeze. Nicolò returned the gesture, not needing to work to turn his thoughts to the matter at hand.

He knew they had a job to do.

“He might be going toward the wrestling ring,” Booker suggested. “Man like that, might like gambling?”

“Possibly.” Andy frowned, clearly considering options. “Either way, he’s heading toward the outskirts. All the better for us.”

She led the way out from between the tents, and Nicolò took the time to scan for the now familiar shape of their target. 

“There,” Booker said—and Nicolò glanced over, but it wasn’t the Viscount Booker was pointing out. “Look at that man’s clothes. He’s a lord,” Booker explained. “I’ve seen some others around as well. They like to wear their wealth.”

Nicolò’s lips turned up, impressed. “Then it will be well known that Mandeville's here. They’ll have no doubt noted him.”

“Good,” Yusuf added. “Then they’ll know what happened when they realise he’s missing.” 

“But we _will_ still need a distraction,” Andy muttered. They had come out into a bit of an open patch, where there were still more than a few people on skates or eating food, but not so many tents. It would be easy to see anything happening on the expanse of ice.

Nicolò thought for a moment, but Yusuf wasted no time. He grinned as he passed Nicolò his now empty cup, then bent down, scooped up a handful of snow—and then launched it at Andy’s face.

Andy spluttered, and Nicolò found himself very glad that she had decided to leave her axe back in their rooms.

Yusuf was grinning, his smile stretched wide enough that it would have been impossible for even the hardest of men to not respond in kind.

“Oh, you _bastard,”_ Andy hissed, speaking a language long since dead, so that none of the passers-by would react—

Not that it mattered, since it was just as uncouth for a lady to bend down and scoop up a handful of snow and fling it at someone’s head—which was exactly what Andy did next.

Yusuf moved to duck behind Nicolò, but Nicolò was ready for him—he caught his love around the waist and swung him around, so that the snowball hit him clean in the shoulder.

“Traitor,” Yusuf said, though his tone was bright.

Nicolò allowed himself the pleasure of leaning forward to dot his lips to Yusuf’s nose before pulling away with a faux glare. “You were the one who used me as a shield first,” he pointed out.

“Well _you_ told me to enjoy myself,” Yusuf grinned.

Nicolò knew he hadn’t said those exact words, but he couldn’t dispute them, either. Instead, he matched Yusuf’s grin and pulled away to prepare a projectile of his own.

What followed could only be described as complete chaos.

Snow flew through the air, feet slipped over ice, bodies danced and ducked as projectiles were launched with the fierceness of any fight to the death. Booker was watching them all in shock—at least, he _was,_ until he got a face full of snow courtesy of their fearless leader. Then he joined right on in.

Yusuf wasted no time recruiting allies—there was soon a gaggle of children around him, passing him handfuls of snow. Nicolò didn’t have to wonder how he’d managed it. Even as he watched, one of the children nibbled on a piece of gingerbread with one hand while crafting a snowball with the other.

Nicolò felt his lip curl at the sight of opportunity. 

It wasn’t long before more people joined in. A fight such as theirs would always have civilian casualties as passers-by got caught in the crossfire—even if they hadn’t been hoping for that exact outcome. The children Yusuf recruited brought in their friends, who attracted the attention of older siblings, who dragged in young adults. Soon, it seemed that whole of the _Thames_ was engaged in tactical warfare—

Though one man in particular appeared to be out for personal vengeance. Somehow, and with no warning, Yusuf and his gaggle of kids had managed to get Nicolò surrounded, caught in a trap.

“Hey now,” Nicolò said, lifting his hands. “I thought we were all on the same side.”

“You thought wrong.” Yusuf grinned, almost baring his teeth as he raised his snowball ready to throw—

But then his smile turned to a yelp as every one of the children turned on him, their handfuls of snow shoving against his skin and into his coat.

“Thought wrong, did I?” Nicolò asked, arching a brow.

“ _Traitors,”_ Yusuf hissed. “Nico, how _could_ you turn these innocent souls against me?”

“Everyone has a price,” Nicolò shrugged. “And apparently, boiled sweets are worth more than gingerbread.”

Yusuf muttered something under his breath as the kids scattered. Even though he didn’t catch the words, Nicolò’s grin widened.

“You should probably check your purse,” Booker said as he came up behind them, his cheeks pink with both cold and excitement. “I’d wager it’s no longer there.”

“Sucker’s bet,” Nicolò laughed.

“What does it matter,” Yusuf shrugged. “They need it more than I do.”

“Hey, assholes,” Andy called—and they turned just in time to receive another snowball to the face. Somehow, she managed to nail all three of them at once.

By the time Nicolò wiped the snow from his stinging eyes, Andy was jerking her head toward a figure attempting to make his way through the massive snowball fight without joining in, his shoulders hunched under his expensive cloak.

It was the Viscount. Their fight had brought them right to the western edge of the fair, near the bridge that was still under construction. Blackfriars, Nicolò thought it was called. There was a group of people gathered near the bridge itself, right to the edge of the ice. They seemed to be watching…

“The elephant,” Nicolò breathed, something of a thought coming to mind. “Yusuf—”

“I know.”

They both watched as the animal’s handlers urged it toward the steps on the riverbank, despite the audible shouts of dismay from the crowd. The Viscount had been heading in that direction, perhaps for a last look at the exotic creature before it was taken away.

But the _reason_ for taking it away when the sun was still high was what had Nicolò curious—and he knew from his expression that Yusuf was thinking the same.

“Hey,” Nicolò called, waving a hand to some kids who still stood hopefully to the side, waiting for a chance to earn more sweets. “Let’s get that guy over there.”

One young girl frowned, looking up in confusion. “Why?”

Nicolò shrugged. “Because he looks important?”

The girl grinned wolfishly—then she and her friends all ran forward, scooping up snow as they went.

There’s something about the helplessness of the usually authoritative that draws people in. Perhaps it’s human nature, to grasp at even the smallest pinch of power when normally any such thing is taken away. After all, Yusuf had been right, when he’d said that London was more than _oppressive._

Perhaps what Nicolò had said to the children held more weight than he knew.

These people truly had been squashed under the heels of the upper classes for a very long time. And when they saw a lord trying to avoid a snowball fight at all costs begin to be pelted with balls of slush… they swarmed like a pack of seagulls upon an abandoned fishmonger’s stall.

The Viscount shouted and yelled, but the kids took no notice—and nor did the older men and women who came to join in, the ecstasy of an upper-class target who wasn’t fighting back too difficult to resist.

They gave it a couple of minutes before making their move. No need to rush, after all.

“Let me help you, Sir,” Yusuf said loudly, hurrying to the Viscount and gripping his arm, pulling him away from the torrent of snow and getting more than a few cold and wet missiles to the back for his trouble. “Get away, all of you! Go!”

Despite not having any snowballs himself, Yusuf was more than capable of mustering up a glare that could have wilted an army—and _had,_ in the past. The kids quickly ran away, leaving Yusuf to help the Viscount pat down his cloak.

(Or, rather—they ran to Nicolò, who doled out a few more handfuls of sweets with conspiratorial thanks.)

“Oh those children are just so beastly, wouldn’t you agree?” Andy said in a falsely accented voice, stepping up to the Viscount’s other side. He eyed her curiously.

“Yes,” he said. He glanced to Yusuf. “Thank you.”

“Are you going to see the elephant?” Yusuf asked, gesturing forward with his arm as if to lead the way. “I was heading in that direction myself.”

“Oh, that would be just _lovely,”_ Andy agreed. The sound of those words from her mouth was just… strange. Nicolò would never get used to it. “We must hurry, though. I think they’re taking it away. I do wonder why.”

The three began making their way to the bridge—and Nicolò and Booker exchanged a glance before following at a careful distance.

It was the distance which made things hard, in the end.

Despite knowing that it was their plan, the sound of cracking ice might as well have been a crack of fear through Nicolò’s heart.

The group of three stopped sharply, their bodies lines of tension. Yusuf had intentionally led them near the same path that the elephant’s feet had trodden—where no doubt the animal’s handler had noticed thin ice, and taken that as a sign to leave.

“Wait,” Booker said, placing a hand on Nicolò’s shoulder as if he could sense his need to get closer. “They’ll be all right.”

Nicolò _knew_ that, and he trusted Yusuf’s judgement with far more than his life. But it didn’t stop him from worrying when the sound of cracking turned into dark lines splitting the ice below Yusuf, Andy, and the Viscount’s feet, the frozen Thames finally giving way to the weight it had been carrying for the better part of a week.

Heart in his throat, Nicolò watched as Yusuf moved to do what any gallant gentleman would—he spun around to the Viscount’s other side to shove the lady the way they’d come, so that Andy fell back onto the thicker ice. In doing so, however, Yusuf caused both he and the Viscount to stumble even further into the dangerous area.

“Yusuf!” Nicolò cried out, a vice closing around every breath, his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted nothing more than to run forward, and he shrugged off Booker’s hand—but the ice was too slippery, wet with use and _melting,_ and even his new boots couldn’t get enough of a grip to prevent him from slipping.

Yusuf turned back to look at him, his lips lifting up into a reassuring smile—

And then he grabbed the Viscount’s expensive cloak, and jerked them both _back._

The ice broke with a sound as loud as a gunshot—

And the two men fell beneath it.

Nicolò didn’t stop to think. He didn’t listen to Booker’s shout. He simply charged forward, keeping his balance as best he could, trying to keep his feet sliding in the right direction. He dug the toes of his new boots into drifts of snow where he could, leaning forward to keep momentum without losing his centre of gravity. 

Andy might have been able to stop him, but she was frozen still, staring at the hole in the ice where Yusuf and the Viscount had fallen through. Nicolò passed her without a glance, all but skidded across the last few yards, and then threw himself into the water without another thought.

It was a blast of cold unlike anything Nicolò had previously known. The water stabbed into his skin like knives of pure ice rather than mere liquid, his muscles screaming before he had even begun to swim.

It was dark beneath the surface, and the river water was murky. But thankfully, there was enough light filtering through the thin ice that Nicolò could see two shapes sinking downward—and he would know the sight of Yusuf’s body in pitch darkness, in total nothingness, in icy cold.

Nicolò forced his frozen and tired body to _move,_ and he curled his arms around Yusuf’s waist before kicking hard with his legs.

But by diving into the water without thinking, he truly hadn’t thought _anything_ through.

Both he and Yusuf were dressed for the harshest of winters, the coldest of days. Their wet woollen clothes weighed a _ton,_ and even if Nicolò managed to pull off their cloaks before they both drowned, he wouldn’t be able to pull off enough of the rest of it.

Still, he had to _try._

He kicked and kicked, he tried pushing Yusuf above him. Yusuf must have hit his head on the way into the water, for he wasn’t waking—unless he had already succumbed to the cold and lack of oxygen. They hadn’t planned on that. Nicolò was on his _own._

And nothing worked, nothing _helped._ They were both dead weights, and as his lungs began to burn, Nicolò knew that there would be little he could do to stop the inevitable.

They would soon both be nothing more than flotsam at the bottom of the Thames.

Still, even as his mind flew into an instinctive panic, Nicolò knew he was not going to let go. He would sooner die here, over and over, than let go of Yusuf. Every instinct in his body was screaming for him to find a way out of the water—but only _with_ Yusuf. Never alone.

Nicolò knew the pull of death well, he knew what he felt like. And yet, the fear was the same every time, that gut wrenching _panic_ that rose up in the chest, the terror that this time, this time would be it. He gave one last, desperate measure, tugging weakly at Yusuf’s waist as he kicked out with his feet—

And somehow, inexplicably, it _worked._

There was a burst of bubbles through the murky water, a trail of movement, another arm tugging at Yusuf’s waist.

_Andy._

Nicolò’s desperate gaze met hers over Yusuf’s floating curls. Her eyes were wide, then she jerked her head—

And together, they were strong enough to pull Yusuf back to the surface.

Thankfully, the ice had cracked enough that they were able to get to a break in it without difficulty. Nicolò drew in a gulp of air the moment his head broke the surface, the acrid taste of the river sticking in his throat, the frigid bite of the air almost as painful as his plunge into the water had been. Yet, despite being free from the water, it still felt like there was something lodged in his chest. Like his lungs weren’t working properly.

Thankfully, Booker was ready—he grabbed Yusuf’s shoulder with a strong hand, which meant Nicolò could pull himself onto the ice without hindrance. The moment he was free of the water, he turned to the side, still gasping, still not able to draw air—

Yusuf was already coughing. There was water flowing from his lips and onto the ice, the hacking sounds tearing from his chest more than hard to hear—but finally, Nicolò felt like he could _breathe._

There was something of a crowd gathered, and Booker called for blankets. Andy was already swaddled in one—the remains of her dress lay tattered some yards away. Despite the painful memories and the fear she had faced, it seemed she had still managed to keep a clearer head than Nicolò.

But, Nicolò didn’t care for the crowd. He barely noticed as blankets were draped over his shoulders, as people called for gin and beer to be brought to warm them further. He just slid over the ice toward Yusuf, and pressed a hand to his love’s beating heart.

It was a rhythm he knew that he would never tire of feeling—just as he would never tire of feeling Yusuf’s hand curl around his own.

“Hayati,” Yusuf rasped, his voice beyond hoarse. “Will you let me complain about the cold _now?”_

The sound that escaped Nicolò’s lips might have been a laugh, but it tore at his throat like a sob.

“You can complain as much as you want,” Nicolò told him. “So long as it means that you are still breathing.”

But Yusuf didn’t complain at all. He just pressed closer to Nicolò, and Nicolò was more than happy to pull his love into his arms. He held Yusuf close to his chest and pressed his face into his wet curls, uncaring of the iciness. Uncaring of the audience. Uncaring of the _world._

At least, until—

“Don’t either of you _ever_ do that to me again,” Andy growled, her words first punctuated by a punch to Nicolò’s shoulder, then a slightly weaker one to Yusuf’s leg. “Not _ever.”_

“We’ll try not to,” Yusuf agreed. He didn’t move from where he had buried his face into the curve of Nicolò’s neck.

“It certainly wasn’t the most enjoyable dip I have ever had,” Nicolò agreed. “Next time, we’ll save the swimming for the Mediterranean.”

It was a few minutes before any of them moved. Thankfully, the crowd soon grew bored of watching them, and reports of more ice cracking soon resulted in people hurrying back onto dry land. 

Booker somehow managed to get a last few cups of chocolate before the stalls packed away. Nicolò was more than grateful for it—both for the warmth the chocolate brought, and the warmth of Yusuf’s resultant smile.

They rather remarkably made it back to their rooms without incident – save for Yusuf growling at the man who charged them a penny each to climb back up the stairs – and it was only when they were defrosting around a warm fire that they finally began to unpack all that had happened.

“With the Viscount gone, the Bill won’t pass, even if all of the Lords in favour show up to Parliament,” Andy said as she stretched her toes in front of the hearth. “We did what we needed to.”

“It won’t make enough of a difference,” Booker said. “We’d need to burn down all the factories and mills for that.”

“It will make a difference to a few, for a while,” Nicolò replied. “Which will mean the world to them.”

Yusuf smiled softly at that, leaning a little further into Nicolò’s side.

“The children who stole Yusuf’s coins will no doubt be glad we came, at least,” Booker allowed—and was Nicolò imagining things, or was that something of a smile?

Andy snorted.

“Exactly,” Nicolò agreed. “And I imagine the sweet vendor also had a good day today.”

“At least the money has gone to a good cause,” Yusuf replied, tilting up his head. “If I’d left it with you, you would have taken that bet against Booker and lost it all.”

“I said it was a sucker’s bet!”

“You were tempted. Admit it.”

“Fine,” Nicolò allowed, leaning in further. “I was… _tempted.”_

Yusuf was smiling, and they were already leaning so close together that their noses brushed with the slightest movement. It was as easy as anything to lean in, to touch their lips together.

Their kiss was soft, but no less passionate for its gentleness. Nicolò slid his fingers into Yusuf’s almost dry hair, smiled into the kiss as he felt Yusuf’s hand slide under his shirt. It wasn’t the kind of kiss that would lead anywhere else—it was grounding, loving, tender. The kind of kiss which let them both linger in the knowledge that they had survived once again, that they were still together. That they would not be parted for anything.

“Maybe we’ll just leave them here and go to France by ourselves,” Andy mused. “I don’t think they’re in danger of freezing, despite the cold.”

Booker chuckled, the sound almost light.

As their lips parted, Nicolò and Yusuf didn’t pull away from each other. They didn’t need to exchange a word to know what the other was thinking—they simply each reached to the back of the couch behind them, picked up a cushion, and lobbed it at their friends’ heads.

No one had claimed victory in the snowball fight, after all.

It was time for a friendly rematch.


End file.
